I channeled a book in under a week, in a language I‘m still not used to – and on top of it, it was poetry. It was based on melody – easy. Yet it took me three years to publish what I had witnessed.
I will always remember the day when I walked our dog with my teenage daughter. She wanted to know all about the exhibition, all about how it felt to finally be there.
I was conflicted at that moment, because my mommy heart wanted to just tell her it was beautiful and nice. That I had set a goal, reached it, and it felt amazing.
But the truth was, I was depressed.
I needed a deep rest from the persona I thought I was. And I needed to be brave enough to admit that I was wrong, that I had been reaching for something that didn’t belong to me.
And so I told her the truth. Because that’s what I will always tell her – the truth.
I said, „Baby, this wasn’t for me. I need to do something different, I guess.“
„But I thought that’s what you wanted to do?“
„That’s what I thought too.“
„What else do you want to do? This is what you fought for all your life. Being an artist“
And this was the moment it blurred out of me.
It blurred out of me.
„I want to write a book. I need to write a book.“
And the truth is, I had known that for years. It was in my subconscious. It was in my conscious. It was in my head. It was on my screen.
I had been getting all these signs, whispers, knowings, feelings.
And they kept getting louder and louder.
And every time I received this intuition ”that I should write a book” I always declined it, belittled it, questioned it.
I don’t even know what to write. What should I write? I’m not a writer. I’m not good at writing. That’s what teachers said.
And then, the next thought would always come:
Write your story. Just write.
But if I wrote my story, I would reveal ugly things. Traumas.
It’s triggering.
It’s ugly.
My story isn’t a story someone wants to hear.
And I didn’t even know where to start.
When? Where? How?
That’s ridiculous.
And when I ran out of arguments, when the thought – Write a book. Write a book. –got louder and louder.
My last defense was always:
Boy, that’s cringe.
Everyone is writing a book now. Everyone is becoming an author. And that’s cringe.
So, a year passed by, and I continued being miserable.
I kept working hard as an artist. I went to art fairs almost every weekend, working seven days a week. My marriage, the kids, my business – I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t breathe.
And suddenly – I couldn’t breathe.
I developed severe asthma, but I kept going.
I won’t bore you with the details, but it got pretty bad. Everything was getting worse.
So much so that – maybe – it took me another six months to finally, finally, miraculously – find time.
And that only happened because the pandemic hit.
And because of that, I had a rare weekend off from art markets and to-do lists.
Finally.
I was so sick of being miserable, of being trapped in this loop, that I just took a pen and paper, sat on my balcony in my pajamas, looked at the sky, and said:
„Okay, Creator, angels, whoever is telling me I should write a book – here I am. I have a pen and paper. Let’s go. What do you want me to write about? I have no clue. I’m here. I don’t know how this works. I don’t know what to do. Please. I’m willing to listen. If you have something to say to me – I’m willing to listen.“
And I didn’t even take that seriously.
I just didn’t care anymore.
I didn’t care if this was cringe. I didn’t care if it wouldn’t work.
I just didn’t care.
So I sat there. I listened.
I didn’t even know what to listen to.
To the stillness?
Of course, nothing happened.
It took me a moment.
And then I thought – I’ll just write what I see right now. Right in this moment. Just stop thinking. Just do. Just open your eyes and write what you see.
And in front of me, there was a tomato plant.
Because that’s what people did in the pandemic.
So I started writing.
One word.
Two words.
Then a third word came to me.
And a fourth.
And so on.
And I just listened.
I listened to what was coming through me, without thinking.
When I thought I was done, I looked up and saw –
This was a poem.
And although it was about a tomato plant, I could see it was deeply spiritual.
I was in awe.
That this was a poem.
And it was in English.
I’m half German, half Persian. And in case you don’t know – Germany is one of the few countries where all TV shows and movies are dubbed. And in case you haven’t noticed –our school system isn’t exactly the best.
This isn’t an excuse.
But I never felt confident expressing myself in English.
And never, ever as a writer.
Never, ever, ever as a poet.
I was amazed that I even knew words that would rhyme.
That I had written something that wasn’t in my head, wasn’t in my plan – it just came to me.
But I didn’t have time to celebrate my first poem, because the next one was already in the pipeline.
I just sat there, in my pajamas, on my balcony, and wrote.
For two hours. Or was it three? Maybe four.
And then the next came.
And then the next.
And then the next.
And then the next.
And I didn’t have enough paper.
I wasn’t prepared at all for this.
I sat there, and sometimes –
I laughed out loud. „No one will believe this.“
And sometimes –
I cried.
Because these were words I needed to hear.
So I spent two days writing, and I had over 40 poems.
I remember briefly trying to count them.
But during those two days, so many poems got lost – because I had to go to the bathroom or prepare dinner. And while cooking or peeing, another poem would come in.
It was like I had opened a gate that I couldn’t close.
And I didn’t have pen and paper.
And although I tried to remember them, they were just – gone.
It was all so new to me.
And quite frankly, I was in shock.
Not only had I witnessed a miracle –
It had come through me.
I was part of it.
And being a channel in this kind of way is just unbelievably beautiful and touching because I knew:
This wasn’t me.
I wasn’t thinking.
I wasn’t goal-setting.
I wasn’t structuring.
It was like someone was putting something in my thoughts.
It was amazing.
And for the next few three days, maybe four, I continued.
But not with the same intensity.
Because of – you know – life and obligations.
But after five or six days, I already had enough poems for a whole book.
Let me save you some time.
I published my book on September 28, 2024. On my birthday.
On my 42nd birthday.
I’m a published author now.
It took so long because I needed to grow into the woman I am today.
Today, I’m a single mom again. Of two. About to divorce for the second time.
Today, I have no art studio, no car.
And I’m not sure how to pay the bills. My rent for next month.
Today, I’m actively healing from codependency.
I’m learning that providing for myself with ease, grace, and joy is a gift - a gift I give to myself.
Today, I acknowledge who I am.
A spiritual healer.
A channel.
A medium.
An artist.
A writer, a storyteller.
Today, I acknowledge my gifts – the ones I have had since I was a little girl.
I no longer deny the light beings I see or the messages I receive.
I am fully tuned in with my intuition.
With the visions I get. With the whispers I hear.
Today, I allow myself to look broken to the outside world.
Because I know the only thing that matters is the wholeness I feel inside.
Today, I allow everything that doesn’t align with my authentic self to disappear, fade away, go away.
And sometimes – break away.
It only means space is being created for me.
For my authentic self to bloom.
Knowing that all this emptiness will soon be filled – with people, circumstances, and things that are in tune.
I love you all very much.
And I’m excited to tell you that today, I finished my second book.
And in case you’re intrigued and want to see and read the poems and illustrations I created years ago:
The book that helped me become loud.
Not in volume.
But rather – loud in being unapologetically my authentic self.
Loud – in taking all my power back.
If that’s the case – my book is called Loud: Channeled Poetry & Art
And it’s available at every major retailer and on Amazon as a softcover and ebook.
Love you.
Mitra